


girls are nice, once or twice (but i never planned on someone like you)

by challaudaku



Category: Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: M/M, also there's bread and cheese hell yeah
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-26
Updated: 2020-06-26
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:08:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24922057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/challaudaku/pseuds/challaudaku
Summary: “You’re doin’ it again, Jack,” Crutchie says, and Jack looks over to him to find him looking pointedly down at his crutch instead of, well, at Jack.“Doin’ what?” Jack says, deciding to not be bothered at Crutchie refusing to make eye contact with him and looking down at his drawing instead.“Luring yourself into falling in love with someone until you inevitably get crushed,” Crutchie points out.And, okay, that’s a little too on the nose, especially after Jack’s discovery earlier. Jack snorts.“I don’t do that,” he says, waving a hand and getting up, walking a little bit away from Crutchie while folding his sketch up.“You do,” Crutchie calls after him. “I’ve been keeping a tally, you wanna see?”or: love at first's sight for suckers and jack kelly is a sucker.
Relationships: Crutchie & Jack Kelly, David Jacobs & Jack Kelly, David Jacobs/Jack Kelly, Racetrack Higgins & Jack Kelly, Spot Conlon & Jack Kelly, Spot Conlon/Racetrack Higgins
Comments: 46
Kudos: 123





	1. overture

**Author's Note:**

> hi! this is a multichapter and it's pretty short (like around 15k) and i finished almost all of it already but i'm gonna post it sorta slowly so you guys can let me know what you think and stuff...  
> please i crave validation  
> yeah so some notes:  
> -apparently crutchie is FIFTEEN in the musical? uhhh nah he's jack's age in this, thanks!  
> -this fic probably is not going to be historically accurate in terms of word usage because i just do NOT know how to look up 1890s slang and get what i want? so excuse me please  
> -bread and cheese are like... just in this chapter. sorry i love them already and might write more about them but oh well they're basically plot devices and they're mentioned earlier but.. not really shown oopsies  
> -bread and cheese are named that because bread was caught stealing bread and had to become a newsie to pay it off or go to jail and then cheese came and they because immediate best friends and went together like "bread and cheese" so  
> -warning for homophobia which turns out to be internalized but its just homophobia rn (nothing terrible, fits in time period)

The interconnecting romantic lives of the newsies isn't anything new. It's not like it _means_ anything, not to most of them, anyway. It's just tired, stolen kisses because it's not like they have anything better to do, or anyone better to do it with. 

It's not like Jack's ever _participated_ in anything like that, but he doesn't mind the idea of it, not at all. Maybe when he's a little older. He'd want that, for sure. 

"Ya comin’, Shortstop?" Bread asks, and Jack focuses and sees how he leans dangerously close to Cheese. It sends a little bit of a thrill through Jack, and he doesn't know why. 

"Don’ call me Shortstop," Jack says, even though he knows the nickname is warranted. He _is_ the shortest of the newsies, but he's also the _youngest_ , so it’s okay. He’ll grow. "Call me _Cowboy_ ," he insists, putting his book back with his other things. He knows his request is to no avail; he's been hanging around the newsies for nearly two years, and they haven't started calling him Cowboy yet. 

"When ya reach four feet, we'll stop callin’ you Shortstop,” Bread replies, ruffling the top of Jack’s hair when he approaches them. He thinks that’s a _bit_ unfair. He has to be _at least_ four feet, but he’s also not really sure. 

“You good to go, kid?” Cheese asks. Jack puts his hat on his head and nods proudly, and then they’re off, going down the street and down to the distribution center.

When they get there, they’re greeted at the front of the window with an argument — there’s Weasel, as usual, and then someone Jack doesn’t recognize. _A new kid_. The new kid _has_ to be around Jack’s age, and it’s exciting. He’s leaning on a crutch and frowning, and Weasel’s telling him something about the prices.

Bread holds out a hand, and Jack stops next to Cheese as Bread goes up to see what’s happening.

“You pay up front, kid, or you don’t get any papes,” Weasel says. Jack recognizes the scared, caged look in the new kid’s eyes, and he feels bad when he realizes that the new kid doesn’t have any money for papes.

“Weasel,” Bread says, digging in his pocket and pulling out a couple of coins and tossing them onto the counter. “Spot ‘im a ‘undred papes, will ya?”

Weasel glares at him for a second, before handing the new kid enough papers that he looks like he might fall over from the sheer weight of them all.

“And gimme fif’y,” Bread adds on, forking over another coin. Weasel complies.

When Cheese goes over, Jack follows, and Cheese tosses a coin and grunts out, “Fif’y.”

Jack takes out his own quarter and peers over the counter. “I’ll get fif’y, too!”

“Ya sure, Shortstop?” Bread asks, looking over at Jack skeptically. Jack nods.

“Ya got fif’y,” he points out. 

“You’re a kid,” Bread says — which doesn’t make _sense_. Doesn’t that mean he could sell _more_? “Give ‘im twen’y,” Bread says, swapping Jack’s quarter with one of his own dimes. He throws the coin back at Jack, who almost misses catching it. 

“Ya got _him_ a ‘undred,” Jack says sourly, taking his twenty papes and jerking his head at the new guy. They have this argument daily, of Jack wanting to take more papers and Bread making him take only twenty, but there’s never been someone that Bread buys _one hundred_ papes for.

“Aw, look at ‘im,” Bread says, walking over to the new kid, who’s struggling to put his papes in his bag. Jack follows obediently. “How old are ya, kid?”

The new kid looks around, looking scared at being approached like this. “Seven,” he says, sounding quiet about it.

“Same age as Shortstop,” Cheese notes, pushing Jack forwards towards the new kid. 

“Look, Shortie,” Bread says to Jack, throwing an arm over the new kid, who still looks terrified. “Crutchie here — can I call ya Crutchie?”

“No, my name’s —” the new kid — Crutchie — attempts to say, but Bread waves him off.

“Crutchie here has a _big_ advantage.” Bread pulls away and looks over Crutchie critically. “Ya got the age advantage, kid,” he says to Jack, “but Crutchie’s got age _and_ cripple advantage. He could sell a thousand papes a week, _easy_.”

“I’ve never sold a pape ‘fore,” Crutchie admits, looking up at Bread.

“Shortstop will go with ya,” Cheese says, pushing Jack forward again. “He’ll show ya the ropes. For ya, it’ll be a cinch.”

“I will?” Jack asks, looking up at Cheese. He’s not sure about this — is he getting replaced as the token little kid? He’s not sure about this whole new kid business, even though he knows that he’s technically been the new kid for two years. 

“Yeah,” Cheese says, knocking Jack’s head forward. 

Crutchie smiles shyly at him, and Jack smiles back, albeit reluctantly.

“Hit the road boys!” Bread calls, to them, but also to the newsies around them. Boys start moving all around them and Jack spares Crutchie a faint smile before taking off.

“Hey, wait up,” Crutchie calls behind him, and Jack pauses. “So you’re Shortstop?” Crutchie asks once he’s caught up to Jack.

“I’m Jack,” Jack corrects. “Or Cowboy. _Not_ Shortstop, not to anyone but Bread and Cheese.”

“Bread and Cheese?” Crutchie asks with a frown. “Their names are Bread and Cheese?”

“Yeah,” Jack says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, because it _is_. “And there’s Fray, and Chesterfield, and Vest, and more. Ya ever heard of a nickname, Crutchie?” Jack says, getting out a pape as a couple approaches.

“Buy a pape from a poor orphan?” Jack asks them, holding his paper out and trying to look as sad as possible. 

“Oh, of course,” the woman says, bending down and handing Jack a couple of coins for the paper. Once the couple’s walked away, Jack shows off the coins to Crutchie before pocketing them.

“Is you really an orphan?” Crutchie asks with a frown.

“Well, yeah, sure, but say you is, even if ya ain’t. That’s how ya get money,” he explains.

“My name’s Charlie, by the way,” Crutchie tells Jack. Jack’s unamused.

“Well, ya Crutchie, now,” he tells Crutchie. “That’s how it works when you a newsie. Hey, give me forty of ya papes, that’s way we both got sixty.”

Crutchie complies, and Jack thinks that this new kid won’t be too bad. Now, at least, he can prove to Bread and Cheese that he _can_ sell more than twenty papes.

“Ya wanna be friends?” Jack offers, the word feeling new on his tongue.

“Friends?” Crutchie repeats, frowning as if he’s never heard of the word before.

“Yeah,” Jack says with a shrug, but his heart is beating fast, as if it knows that Jack has never done _this_ before, has never made friends before. “I mean, there’s the guys, but I ain’t got no one _my_ age, so.”

“Sure, Cowboy,” Crutchie says, holding out the hand that’s not propped up on his crutch. Jack grins and takes Crutchie’s hand. 

He thinks that they’ll be friends forever — or, at very least, a very long time.

…

“Where do ya live?” Crutchie asks quietly, a year or so later, when they’re on one of their usual newspaper runs. Jack frowns, because Crutchie’s never asked a question like that, but he’s Jack’s first friend, so he supposes he could answer.

“I gotta penthouse,” Jack says, sticking his chest out a little. “Lotsa fresh air, and a nice sky view.”

“Really?” Crutchie asks, and Jack glances over to him looking a little bit awed.

“Yep,” Jack says, grinning. “It’s a _really_ nice fire escape.” Crutchie hesitates, looking confused. “Where’da you live, Crutch?” Jack asks, lightly hitting Crutchie in the chest.

“Depends on where I can find a spot,” Crutchie admits, looking down at his leg.

“Hey, don’ look so down,” Jack says, hitting Crutchie again. “We’ll talk to Bread and Cheese and get ya your own penthouse.”

“Yeah?” he asks, looking skeptical and frowning over at Jack.

“For sure,” Jack says and it delights him when Crutchie starts to grin, too.

…

Jack is ten when Bread and Cheese sit him down on their fire escape and explain that they’re leaving.

“Why?” Jack demands immediately. “Where?”

“We’re goin’ out west, Shortstop,” Bread says, as if it’s just as simple as that. It’s _not_ that simple, Jack knows.

“It’s time for us to move on,” Cheese adds. Jack looks at him, unwavering. 

“That’s what you say when someone _dies_ ,” Jack deadpans. _He’s_ had that used on him “Yis plannin’ to go out west to _die_?”

“‘Course not,” Bread says quickly, tapping Jack’s leg with his finger. “We just got enough that we don’ _have_ to be newsies anymore.”

And part of Jack gets so angry at that.

“And what ‘bout the rest of us that do?” he demands, anger rising up in him. “What ‘bout me? Who’s supposed’ta _take care of me_?”

Bread looks a little guilty at that, but Cheese is unwavering. “Shortie, I was your age when I was left alone,” he says. “You’ll be fine, I promise.”

“Just because _you_ did, doesn’t mean _I_ should hafta,” he shouts, standing up. “I don’t care if I’ll be _fine_. I don’t wanna just be fine.”

Jack wonders absently if he’s pouting. He probably is. 

“Just…” Jack looks around, and he wants to leave, to leave _them_ before they leave _him_ , but he also wants to convince them to not leave him. “How’s ‘bout ya take me with you?”

“We can’t do that, Jack,” Cheese snaps. A part of Jack wants to sober up at that, because Cheese has _never_ called him by his real name before. Jack doesn’t even know _Cheese’s_.

“Why?” Jack challenges, and he sticks his chin up as Cheese rises. Maybe he is short, but he doesn’t want to seem like it. “Is it because you’re queer?” he whispers out, barely above a breath.

Cheese looks like he wants to punch Jack’s lights out. Bread quickly goes to stand between them.

“And who told ya that, Shortstop?” Bread whispers, and somehow, that’s even scarier than Cheese about to punch him.

Jack shrugs, because no one specifically had to _tell_ him. He has eyes, after all, and he knows about the newsies kissing each other from time to time — he’s grown up walking onto his friends kissing each other, and it’s usually nothing out of the ordinary, but Bread and Cheese are _different_. Their kisses are different, more frequent. They give each other small, important looks, like they have entire conversations without their eyes. 

They’re practically Jack’s fathers.

The rest of the newsies aren’t queer, Jack doesn’t think. They know that nothing’s ever going to come from innocent kisses.

Bread and Cheese, though… they’re something more than that. 

“I don’t care, if you is,” Jack mumbles, looking down at his feet. “I just don’t wan’ ya to leave.”

Bread and Cheese are quiet, and Jack doesn’t look up, but he knows that they’re having one of their silent conversations, with just their eyes.

“We gotta, kid,” Bread says finally, bending down so that Jack can’t avoid making eye contact as easy. “One day, maybe ya can come out west and join us, but for now… we gotta leave.”

Jack stays quiet for a few more moments, and then he turns and goes down the fire escape stairs. He walks without direction, but his feet know where he wants to go, and before any time’s really passed, he’s at the bottom of Crutchie’s fire escape.

“Bread ‘n’ Cheese is leaving,” Jack announces, climbing up and falling deeper and deeper into this foul mood of his with every step. 

“They what?” Crutchie asks, looking up with a frown. 

“They’re leavin’,” Jack says, flopping down next to Crutchie and pulling off his hat, disgruntled. “Because they’re a couple of _queers_ ,” he spits, and he’s not sure why he’s so mad at that. He doesn’t care if they _are_ , but for some reason, it makes his blood boil. “I hate queers,” he adds. He oughta report them to the police — then they would never leave, Jack thinks.

“You don’t hate Bread and Cheese,” Crutchie says. 

Jack’s silent.

No, he doesn’t.


	2. that's rich

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> because i couldnt wait. as always, i crave validation  
> warning for internalized homophobia  
> also like this bridges the first chapter to the musical, so it's happening when jack's 10-17.. i dont say his age all the time, but it's in chronological order, and by the end, he's 17

“Ya think Bread and Cheese went to Santa Fe, Crutch?” Jack asks, two years later, in the early morning light, fingering the spine of his book, his sole keepsake from his father.

“Why Santa Fe?” Crutchie asks, frowning and rubbing his bad leg.

“I dunno,” Jack says with a shrug, thinking about cowboys and adventures and a life he can never live. “Maybe they took the ATSF all the way, huh?”

“Maybe,” Crutchie says, and it’s clear he doesn’t get it.

Jack thinks about going to Santa Fe one day, and he thinks he oughta sell a whole lot of papes.

… 

Crutchie is attractive, Jack thinks, and it’s a weird thought to notice about his best friend as they’re growing up together.

Jack rolls over and pushes the thought down.

… 

Jack has his first kiss when he’s fourteen. It’s with this girl he met while hawking papers, and they kiss in an alleyway behind this theatre, and it’s messy, and it’s sloppy and Jack isn’t sure about kissing her.

He tells Race the next day, when they’re selling papers, and Race grins and claps him on the back and offers him a hit of his cigar.

Jack isn’t sure it’s something to be congratulated on.

…

Jack ends up kissing Race himself, two days later. It still feels weird, because it’s _Race_ , and Jack’s not too sure about kissing _Race_ , but it feels better, somehow. 

It gets Jack’s heart racing and his blood coursing through his body, and it feels like how a kiss is _supposed_ to feel, Jack thinks. The kiss is rough, and there’s a lot of hands, and fingers threading into hair, and Race tastes like cigars. Jack absently wonders where Race gets all of these cigars from, but he likes the taste, he likes the rush, and _he likes kissing Race_.

The kiss ends, though, and they’re just Jack and Race, and Jack wonders faintly, _what the hell_.

…

He kisses more girls. There are ones he’s found while they’re going to school, or to the theatre, and he chats them up the same way he chats up his bad newspaper headlines. They giggle when they charm him, and Jack likes making them smile, but when it comes to actually kissing them, it doesn’t evoke the same pleasure in him.

The kisses are bland, and they’re boring, and if Jack has to kiss girls for the rest of his life, he doesn’t think he’ll enjoy his life much. 

…

Jack finds a discarded pen and a pad of paper and he feels like the luckiest guy in the world.

He draws pictures of the people he thinks are pretty, and he realizes that none of them are girls. 

Once he realizes that, he quickly switches to drawing pictures of Santa Fe.

…

Jack kisses Crutchie, one night, when it’s November, and it’s freezing, and they’re curled up together to get warm, and Jack just… does it.

“Oh,” Crutchie says, and he moves his head away, but he doesn’t move his body away.

“Sorry,” Jack says quickly, because there’s a tickling feeling at the back of his head, one that’s giving him a bad idea, and Crutchie is attractive and Jack thinks he likes that.

“No, it’s — it’s fine,” Crutchie says, and Jack’s body thrums as he realizes that Crutchie’s breathless.

And so Jack does the logical thing: he leans his head down and kisses Crutchie again.

They kiss, and they kiss, and it feels _good_ , and it’s the same rush Jack got when he was kissing Race, but it doesn’t feel like it’s for any of the same reasons.

It’s not until the morning, when the two of them are up, and not talking about it, and getting dressed, it hits Jack, sort of all at once. He wants to kiss Crutchie again, sort of desperately and hungrily and…

“You okay, Jack?” Crutchie asks, looking over at Jack with a frown.

“Fine,” Jack says, trying to look anywhere but Crutchie. He can’t afford to lose time over his own troubles, not when they need to get to the distribution center and start working.

“Are you sure?” Crutchie asks, sitting down next to Jack.

And then Jack bursts into tears, which is just about the most humiliating thing that has ever happened to him. 

“Jack?” Crutchie says, softly, and Jack wants to stop crying, he wants to force himself to stop, and he _can’t_.

“I think I’m queer,” he whispers, between tears and heavy breathing. And he hates himself for it, he hates the thought, but he doesn’t think he likes the idea of being with a girl, not at all.

But here’s Crutchie, and he thinks about how _good_ kissing him felt. And he thinks about the rush of giddiness kissing Race and how much kissing girls just… didn’t spark that in him.

And Crutchie says, “Oh _, Jack,_ ” in a tiny little voice, and Jack doesn’t think he’s cried this much… well, ever.

“Ya know that it don’t matter to me, yeah?” Crutchie asks as Jack presses the heels of his hands to his eyes to stop tears from coming through. “I mean, if ya hated me for being a lil’ different, I’d probably be dead now. So I could never do that to _you_.”

“Even if I —” Jack’s voice catches, and not even he has enough gall to ruin an eight-year friendship.

“Even if you’re queer for _me_?” Crutchie finishes, and Jack needs to stop forgetting that Crutchie has eyes and Jack isn’t subtle, not at all.

He thinks, for some reason, about Bread and Cheese, even though he hasn’t seen them for years. It makes his stomach feel a little bit funny. 

“I ain’t gonna pretend I feel the same way ‘bout you, Cowboy,” Crutchie says, and Jack can’t make himself look at him. “But yous my family. I wouldn’t hate ya, no way.”

Jack bites his lip, and he decides not to press it. It was a dumb idea, anyway, thinking of Crutchie like that.

He doesn’t think he’s wrong though. About being queer. It’s scary, and it’s stupid, and Jack isn’t sure if he’ll ever tell anyone else, but the idea of being with a guy…

It’d beat out the idea of being with a girl any day.

Jack’s terrified at the prospect, so instead of facing it, he shrugs, and stands up.

“We should get to work,” he says, not quite meeting Crutchie’s eye.

…

Jack gets over it all surprising quickly. Maybe it’s something to do with the fact that now that he _knows_ he’s queer, he can actually look at other fellas and be attracted to them and not deny it.

“Race is cute, don’t’cha think?” Jack asks, laying down on their fire escape. After a moment of silence, Jack lifts his head up to look over at his friend. Crutchie looks unamused.

“I don’t think Race would like to be called cute,” Crutchie replies with a little chuckle.

“Hey, I don’t think he has a problem with any of _this_ —” Jack starts waving down at himself for lack of a better way to say _queer_ — because there’s still a level of awkwardness, there. 

“I never said that,” Crutchie says, forcing himself into a sitting position and then holding up his hands. “I mean, he does seem the type. I just don’t think _cute_ is the way to describe it. He’s like… ruggedly handsome.”

Jack’s quiet for a moment, considering that, and he shrugs, not entirely sure Crutchie can see him, but it doesn’t matter, anyway. 

“Is this what it’s gonna be like, now?” Crutchie asks after a moment of silence.

“Whaddya mean?” Jack asks, looking up at the sky.

“You gonna come to me with all of your little crushes?” Crutches asks, and Jack considers that. It’s nice to have someone to talk to about things like this. Jack doesn’t think he would want it to be anyone but Crutchie.

“You gonna let me?” Jack replies.

“Of course,” he says, and Jack grins up to the sky.

…

The first time Jack shares a bed with another guy that’s not Crutchie isn’t quite the experience he had hoped it would be. He definitely didn’t expect it to be with _two_ guys.

Jack hates the Refuge, he decides, right then and there. He never wants to go back.

Still, once his three months for loitering is up, he vows to return there with something more human than rags and moldy food for those boys that didn’t get off.

…

Jack stays awake, and he draws, and he draws, and he draws.

…

Jack’s not stupid — he sees the way Spot Conlon and Racetrack dance around each other, all cagey-like, as if there’s _something_ happening between them.

It just takes him a bit to realize that he’s not sure _who_ he’s actually jealous of, there. And ain’t that something.

…

Fray retires when Jack’s fifteen. He moves upstate to take care of his sick ma, now that he’s got some money, and suddenly, everyone from his childhood — except for Crutchie, of course, because Crutchie never seems to count — is gone.

And he’s left being one of the oldest newsies, and definitely the one that’s been there for the longest, so it falls onto him to be the leader.

It’s scary, and it’s daunting, but Jack likes it.

…

Jack makes a muffled groan into his hands.

“Is it the new kid?” Crutchie asks, and Jack can’t see his face, but he can just _picture_ Crutchie’s little sideways smile.

“I just wanna —” Jack aborts the rest of his sentence in favor of groaning again. 

He thinks he has it bad for Elmer.

…

Jack’s fingers sneak towards the paintbrush, and his hand gets held, hard.

All that’s racing through his mind is that he’s supposed to be a _leader_ for the newsies. He can’t go to the refuge, not again. 

“I get people try to steal my money, and my food, and even my tickets,” the hand says — who happens to be connected to maybe the most gorgeous and the scariest woman Jack has ever seen. “Ain’t no one tries stealing _art supplies_. Are you an artist, boy?”

Jack blinks, and it takes him a second to realize that _he’s supposed to answer_.

“Uh,” he says, and he doesn’t know how to make real words come out of his mouth.

“Look, if you wanna paint, you could’ve just asked,” the lady explains. “You’re with Medda, now, baby. You can paint backdrops for me, if you’d like. Just no sneaking the supplies off.”

Jack makes himself nod, and he clears his voice before saying, “I’m Jack Kelly.”

“And I’m Miss Medda Larkin,” the woman says, and the smile lines around her mouth are soft.

…

Kissing Finch makes Jack feel lightheaded.

Goddamn, he wants to do it again.

…

Jack gets caught, trying to steal clothes for the guys in the refuge. The guys have become used to seeing him sneak in with food and clothes in his hands.

Almost none of them remember the last time Jack came in through the front door, scuffed up, and with handcuffs on his wrists.

Jack squeezes himself into a corner of the bed and he lays awake, thinking of cowboys and Santa Fe, except his fellow cowboys are the newsies and Santa Fe is just that fire escape, with Crutchie.

He draws, and he dreams of escape.

…

“Specs, ya wanna go out onto the fire escape?”

“Are ya tryna to hit on me, Jack Kelly?”

Jack is trying not to blush. He really is. Specs is right, of course, but does he have to go and _announce_ it? With the full name and everything?

“So I guess that’s a no?” he asks, and Specs rolls his eyes under his thick glasses and shakes his head.

…

Jack, somehow, always seems to return to Race. They kiss on empty fire escapes and in abandoned stairwells and it feels Jack with a sort of fire that he’s not sure he likes.

“So how ‘bout Spot Conlon, huh?” Jack says, pulling away with his fingers tangled up in Race’s hair.

“Oh, God, I ain’t gonna talk about feelings right now,” Race says, his fingers fumbling around in the air like he wants to stick a cigar in his mouth. Jack can’t help but grin as he sees that, because Race _claims_ he’s trying to quit, but Jack thinks it won’t last more than three weeks. 

“But there _is_ feelings?” Jack asks quietly, and he’s really not sure why he’s doing this to himself.

“Shut _up_ , Cowboy,” Race says, shoving Jack hard in the chest before immediately pulling him back in for more.

…

“I think Albert _is_ queer if that makes you feel any better,” Crutchie says, and Jack stares down at his book without taking in any of the words.

“Oh, it doesn’t.”

…

Jack’s not sure if it’s the good kind of jittery, what he feels when he kisses Spot. He can understand _why_ Race likes him.

It makes him feel really weird.

…

“I’m messed up,” Jack says, almost banging his head down on the metal.

“You said it, not me,” Crutchie replies, and Jack looks up enough to see him trying to hold back a laugh. 

“This is a new low for me,” he points out with a groan.

“It doesn’t get much lower than a _Delancey_ ,” Crutchie says, and this time he doesn’t hold back a laugh.

Jack groans again.

…

The metal of the fire escape clangs and Jack blinks his eyes open to see Crutchie getting up.

“Where you goin’?” Jack says with a groan, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. “Morning bell ain’t rung yet. Go back to sleep.”

In their ten years of friendship, Crutchie must’ve woken Jack up at the ass-crack of dawn thousands of times. Jack’s never going to enjoy it.

“I wanna beat the other fellas to the street,” Crutchie says, and Jack groans again.

He’d better get up.


	3. watch what happens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a lot of the dialogue in the first part is taken from the musical, so excuse me for that. im trying to focus on whats not in the show, but need to show them meeting so....  
> also rip to i never planned on you i KNOW the fic i named after it but oops no katherine/jack. just imagine jack singing it to himself about davey yeah <3

“Have a look at this: a new kid,” Weasel says, and Jack glances over.

He then immediately looks at Crutchie, who grimaces at him. Jack takes another glance at the new kid, and hey, he ain’t bad at all. Jack gives Crutchie a grin, who rolls his eyes, and Jack is about to greet the new kid _anyway,_ when he makes everyone freeze.

“I’m sorry. Excuse me. I paid for twenty but you gave me nineteen.”

Jack thinks he might regret getting in with New Kid, but he snatches the papers right out of his hands — all Jack gets it’s a quiet, “hey!” — and counts them quickly: one, two, three, five, ten, fifteen… 

Nineteen.

“Beat it!” Oscar says, and Jack turns back around.

“ _Whoa_. New Kid’s right, Weasel,” Jack says, tossing the papers back to him. “You gave ‘im nineteen. Hey,” he says, putting up his hands as Oscar and Weasel turn on him, now, “I’m sure it’s an honest mistake, on accounta Oscar can’t count to twenty with his shoes on.”

Oscar jumps at him before Weasel pulls him back, and damn, Jack would love to win in a fight against a Delancey brother in front of New Kid.

“Here,” Weasel growls, tossing New Kid another pape. “Now take a hike.”

Jack hesitates for a second, sticking his hand in his pocket. If he sells alongside New Kid — which he will, he always sells with the new kid — New Kid’s going to be done way faster than Jack, with only twenty papes.

And Jack really doesn’t want him to be done quickly.

“Hey, give New Kid fifty more papes,” Jack says, slamming down a quarter.

“I don’t want more papes,” New Kid says, and Jack frowns. He’s going to make things _difficult_ for Jack, isn’t he? 

Whatever, Jack supposes. More fun for him.

“What kinda newsie don’t want more papes?” Jack asks, a smile playing on his lips. Oscar gives New Kid the extra fifty anyway, and maybe Oscar ain’t so bad. Maybe Jack should use Oscar as his wingman instead of Crutchie.

Nah. That thought dies quickly. Oscar’s a bitch.

“I’m no charity case,” New Kid says, hurrying away.

“His name’s Jack,” someone says, and Jack has to look down and there’s a _mini_ New Kid. Oh, Jesus. That’s… fun.

“Yeah, this here's the famous Jack Kelly,” Crutchie says from behind him, standing up and walking towards New Kid. “He once escaped jail on the back of Teddy Roosevelt’s carriage, made all the papes,” he adds and Jack grins down at the floor as the other newsies snicker. Of course Crutchie and the other newsies already know the drill.

Jack turns his attention to Mini New Kid, and maybe he could _use_ that to his advantage. “How old are ya, kid?” he asks.

“I’m ten,” Mini New Kid says proudly, and Jack doesn’t remember being that small when he was ten. Was he? “Almost,” Mini adds, and Jack laughs. The real mark of being a new newsie: trying to go older.

“Well, if anybody asks, you’re seven,” he instructs, and he relishes a little bit, in the way Mini holds onto his words and nods. “Younger sells more papes,” he adds, and then a genius idea comes into his head, “and if we’re gonna be partners —”

“Who said we want a partner?” New Kid interrupts, and Jack grins. He doesn’t think he’s had this much fun with a new kid since freaking _Albert_.

“Selling with Jack is the chance of a lifetime,” Crutchie tells New Kid. Jack needs to remember to thank him later. “You learn from him, you learn from the best.”

“If he’s the best, what’s he need with me?” New Kid asks, and _oh_ , _won’t he find out?_

“‘Cause you got a little brother and I don’t,” Jack says to New Kid, jerking his head towards Mini. He thinks this is the easiest sell for partnership he has _ever_ had, and it’ll be disappointing, later, if New Kid rejects him. “With that puss, we could easily sell a thousand papes a week. Hey, look sad, kid,” he instructs, _and Mini does it_. Jack has forgotten how much _fun_ little ones are. Mini reminds him of… well, of himself, and learning the ropes of being a newsie. “We’re gonna make millions,” he says, and he tries to give New Kid a winning smile. New Kid doesn’t look very amused.

“This is my brother David,” Mini says, and Jack’s smile turns into something more natural. “I’m Les.”

“Hey, nice to meet you, Davey,” Jack says, winking over at Davey. There’s no nickname popping into Jack’s mind for him, yet, but he likes the idea of calling him something other than just _David_. “My two bits come off the top, we split everything else seventy-thirty,” he says, and he should really take a moment to actually look at the entire pape before committing to this partnership. It’d be embarrassing to have a terrible day when he’s trying to impress Davey. 

“Fifty-fifty,” Les says, and Jack pauses. “You wouldn’t try to pull a fast one on a little kid?”

Jack is a little surprised. He _maybe_ would have been that short at Les’ age, but no _way_ was he that _sassy_. He likes it. He wonders what Davey is like, under that New Kid shine. “Sixty-forty,” Jack amends, because he _did_ buy more papes than Les and Davey have, even with his extra fifty. He likes Davey, thinks he’s cute, but he still needs the money. “And that is my final offer.” 

Les looks over at Davey for a second before turning back to Jack and saying, _“Deal_!”

Jack grins, and spits, and holds out his hand. Without any hesitation, Les spits into his own hand and shakes Jack’s. Jack loves new kids.

“That’s disgusting,” Davey says, and Jack still loves him anyway. He just needs to break Davey in, that’s all.

“That’s just business,” Jack says, winking again at Davey, who frowns. 

It’s time to hit the road.

…

“So, how did you get into being a newsie?” Davey asks, as Les runs on ahead of them, hawking the headline. Jack thinks he’s a natural, honestly, and he also loves Davey making conversation with him.

“Had to survive somehow,” Jack says, complying when Les runs back and asks for another couple of papes. Having a little sell his papers _for_ him isn’t really his style, but he’s never had a little with an older brother who’s — well, who’s _cute_.

Jack’s falling for Davey already, just a little bit.

“Survive?” Davey echoes, and Jack, for the first time, really takes in Davey’s appearance. He takes in Davey’s carefully pressed shirt, and his shoes hardly have any dirt on them. When Davey takes off his cap to adjust it, he also notes that Davey’s hair is cut evenly, not the choppy cuts that the boys give each other when their hair gets too long.

And Jack bites his lip as he realizes that Davey isn’t quite one of them.

“How comes you a newsie?” Jack asks right back, giving Davey a sideways glance. 

“My dad got laid off,” Davey says, and Jack can’t help his deep breath in. “Messed up his leg bad,” he adds, as Les comes running back to them for more papes. “So we had to find some way to get money until he gets a new job.

Jack nods, and it’s one thing to become close — _more than friends type close_ — with any newsie, but having a father, having a _family_ … 

Those types of people, in Jack's opinion, are the ones who would never, not in a million years, spare him any type of time for more than just being friends. They’re the ones with a set view of the world, who haven’t seen just how messed up the world truly is and have realized that the world doesn’t care if a fella kisses another fella.

Jack nods again, and he tries to stop himself from thinking about Davey like that because he knows it won’t lead to anything, but Les comes back to them, grinning, and Davey pats Les on the back and grins at his brother, and Jack’s stomach clenches.

On second thought, he’s not sure how much fun Davey is actually going to be.

…

Jack loves Medda’s show, he really does. He’s practically grown up with it, spending hours backstage, listening to her perform as he’s painted backdrops for her.

Which means he’s seen it a whole bunch of times. So now, instead of paying attention to the show itself, he’s staring at Davey in the seat next to him, with Les on his lap. Davey is smiling, nodding his head along to the music. There’s a weird feeling, in Jack’s throat, as he looks over at Davey, and his heartbeat is so loud in his ears that he can’t really hear the show.

For something better to do than just stare after Davey like an idiot, Jack looks around the theatre, at the other people there. In the box across from Jack’s section of the theatre, he sees a girl there, who looks vaguely familiar. It takes a second before Jack realizes that it’s the girl he flirted with earlier.

Oh, she’ll be fun to annoy.

Jack smacks Davey lightly and then points up at the girl and holds up a finger. Davey frowns, but shrugs, and Jack hopes he doesn’t leave before he comes back. As Medda finishes, he runs over, gives her a hug, and then starts up into the box.

“Well, hello again,” he says, approaching the girl, who’s scribbling hard in a journal.

“This is a private box,” the girl says, looking up and glaring at him. Jack grins.

“What, ya want I should lock the door?” he asks, inching a little closer to her. The girl turns back to her journal and doesn’t react. “Twice in one day,” he notes. “Think it’s fate?”

“Go away,” the girl says, still looking down at her notebook. “I’m working.”

“Oh, a working girl, huh? Doin’ what?” Jack asks, taking the seat next to her. 

“Reviewing the show for the _New York Sun_ ,” she replies, and usually Jack gets more interest.

“Hey, I work for the _World_ !” Jack exclaims, knowing full well they have _very_ different jobs.

“Oh, someone out there someone cares,” the girl replies, glaring at Jack once again. “Go tell them.”

Jack’s lips turn into a smile and he looks down at the other audience members. He spots Davey picking up Les and the two of them quietly heading towards the theatre door. Like hell Jack isn’t going to walk them home.

“Maybe I will,” Jack says, getting up and walking towards the door. “I _will_ be seeing you later, though,” he tells her, and he hopes that’s true. 

Then, he turns and heads down from the box and out of the theatre door. 

“Hey, where ya goin’?” he calls, spotting Davey’s retreating back, Les slung over his shoulder. Davey pauses and turns around to look at Jack. 

“Les fell asleep,” Davey explains, motioning to his brother. “I figured I should get him home.”

“I’ll walk ya,” Jack offers, falling into step beside Davey.

“I thought you weren’t gonna come back, honestly,” Davey admits as they start walking down the road. “With that pretty girl and all.”

“Oh, no, I don’t…” Jack waves a hand, and he’s not sure what he’s trying to deny. Maybe the fact that Davey thinks he would do something with a girl. He’s already learned that he honestly doesn’t like it, no matter how pretty the girl is.

Still, he doesn’t know what Davey’s reaction would be, so he stays quiet about it.

“So, ya got folks?” Jack asks, in an attempt to make conversation. 

“Two of them,” Davey replies. Jack looks down at the floor, trying not to seem bitter. “What happened to your folks?” he asks quietly after a moment of silence.

“I don’t remember my ma,” Jack admits. “My father died forever ago. Got into an accident at work.”

“Like my dad,” Davey says quietly, and there’s something weird in his voice. Jack forgets about it when Davey stops walking and gestures to the building on their left. “This is us,” he says, searching Jack’s face with his brown eyes. 

Jack wants to lean forward, just a bit, towards Davey’s face. He has this unexplainable urge to leave a kiss on Davey’s cheek, but he resists it. 

“You sure you don’t wanna come in?” Davey asks, shifting his weight. “Our folks won’t mind.”

“I’m sure,” Jack says, holding up a hand. “Look, thanks, but Crutchie’s probably waiting up for me. I should go.”

Davey nods, and still, neither of them moves to leave. 

“Thank you,” Davey says, finally, and then he turns and heads into the building. Jack’s heart is beating fast, and he can’t help the grin that spreads across his face.

…

And Crutchie _is_ waiting up for Jack when he climbs up the fire escape, and Jack’s still grinning like an idiot. Because this whole _not_ falling for Davey isn’t going too well, because he dragged Davey to a freaking _burlesque_ show, and isn’t that a great first date?

With a sigh like he’s decompressing, Jack sits down, his legs dangling off of the edge of the fire escape, and he can’t stop thinking about Davey. Twisting a little bit, he grabs his paper and his pen, and he starts to sketch.

He’s having a great old time, drawing out Davey’s lips first and moving up towards his nose and eyes, until —

“You’re doin’ it again, Jack,” Crutchie says, and Jack looks over to him to find him looking pointedly down at his crutch instead of, well, _at Jack_.

“Doin’ what?” Jack says, deciding to not be bothered at Crutchie refusing to make eye contact with him and looking down at his drawing instead.

“Luring yourself into falling in love with someone until you inevitably get crushed,” Crutchie points out.

And, okay, that’s a little _too_ on the nose, especially after Jack’s discovery earlier. Jack snorts.

“I don’t do that,” he says, waving a hand and getting up, walking a little bit away from Crutchie while folding his sketch up.

“You do,” Crutchie calls after him. “I’ve been keeping a tally, you wanna see?”

“ _A tally_ ?” Jack asks, whirling back around. He knows that there’s _some_ truth in what Crutchie’s saying, but he highly doubts he’s done it enough to warrant a tally. Crutchie smirks at Jack, and Jack wants to hit it off of him. When did _Crutchie_ become sassy to him? _Crutchie?_ Jack’s glad Race isn’t his best friend.

Cruchtie smiles dryly and twists until he pulls out a piece of paper from his things.

“Me, first of all,” Crutchie says, looking down at the list, and _holy shit, he made a freaking tally._ Jack waves a hand.

“That don’t count,” he replies, because he was _young_ and Crutchie was the first person he had found slightly attractive — _of course_ he was going to fall in love with him.

“Thanks, Jack,” Crutchie replies and Jack waves a hand.

“Oh, come on. I love ya like a _brother_ ,” he insists. “That was just a tiny lapse.”

“Race was lapse as well, then?” Crutchie asks, an eyebrow raised. Jack doesn’t dignify that with a response, because Crutchie knows _full well_ that he and Race _still_ get together if they’re both bored — and Jack would gladly have it be more permanent, if Race would ever get over damned Spot. “ _Spot Conlon,_ eh?” Crutchie says, and Jack presses his lips together in a thin line. “That girl from Medda’s — that one was interesting.” Jack nods, and thinks about how nothing with a girl has really worked out. “Albert, Finch, Elmer, hey remember getting rejected by Specs? Mush, Buttons, JoJo, Tommy Boy, Romeo, Ike, literally almost _every single one of our friends_. And I seem to recall a crush on _Morris Delancey_ that ended up nowhere.” Jack, unable to take it, goes after and smacks Crutchie with his hat. Crutchie laughs and holds up his hands.

“I’m just saying, it’s nothing new to kiss another Newsie, or even to be queer, but _no one_ has fallen in love like you do,” he says, and Jack crosses his arm and looks up at the stars. “You fall in love at first sight.”

“Love at first sight’s for suckers,” Jack replies, even though, deep down, he _knows_ Crutchie has a lot of truth in what he’s saying. 

“Jack. Cowboy. _You’re_ a sucker,” Crutchie says, and Jack lets out a long sigh.

“Maybe I am,” he admits. He mulls over it for a second, thinking about everything Crutchie’s said. “I think this is different, though,” he admits to Crutchie, and he’s really not sure _why_ that is. Something about Davey is stirring something in him, though.

“How?” Crutchie asks, and when Jack looks over, he’s staring at Jack, frowning.

“I think I might hafta fight for this one.” Jack says it in a joking tone, but it’s not really a joke, if he’s being honest. He’s not a stranger to having to put a little work towards getting someone to follow around with him, but for some reason, he _really_ wants this to work on Davey.

It’s weird. It’s different than just love, he thinks.

He’s not quite sure what it is.


	4. the world will know

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a little bit shorter because it was supposed to be part of the next chapter but i decided to split them up so i didnt have a _massive_ chapter  
> i just want to post it all but now im remembering that i don't have it actually finished LMAO i should do that  
> anyway i just made myself cry laughing because i never planned on you but jack says girls like gru from despicable me does

The previous day comes back in a rush as soon as Jack wakes up. He blinks one eye open and sees Crutchie already getting up on his side of the fire escape.

“Davey exists, right?” he asks, and Crutchie looks over to see Jack laying on the floor.

“More or less,” Crutchie replies, and Jack closes his eyes again. “Bell’s gonna ring soon,” he notes, and Jack shrugs as best as he can from the floor. “You gonna just stay here all day?”

“Maybe I will,” Jack mutters, because both he and Crutchie know that it’s a lie. Jack stays there, his eyes closed, for another five minutes before the bell rings, loud and clear and Jack decides he’d better get up. “Race! Albert, Specs, Elmer, Henry! Geddup!” Jack calls over the side of the fire escape.

And then he gets up himself.

Maybe he’ll get to know Davey better. Maybe he’ll forget about it all and he’ll just be another newsie.

Still, Jack has a creeping suspicion that he needs to get Davey out of his system. Just _once_. It’s worked however many times before. He just…

By the time Jack gets out of his own head, he realizes that Crutchie’s already left him.

With a sigh, he forces himself to trudge to the distribution center. When he gets there, the other boys are looking up at the headline sign, not even buying any papes.

“What’re you all standin’ around for?” he asks, going to stand next to Crutchie, who’s staring off. It takes a moment for Jack to comprehend the words that are written up there.

 _New Newsie Price: Sixty Cents Per Hundred_.

Sure. Like hell Jack will take that.

…

Early the next morning, Jack, Les, and Davey all walk to Brooklyn.

The walk is too long, in Jack’s opinion. It’s not like he’s never taken the walk before, but it feels like Davey and Les are dragging him down. They _are_ , literally dragging him down — he and Davey have to take turns carrying Les throughout the journey, because his little legs definitely can’t take the walk and he’s still asleep at this early in the morning. Still, it’s long enough for Davey to ask too many questions for someone that’s not actually going to stay a newsie.

“Why is everyone scared of Spot Conlon?” Davey asks, Les on his back, snoozing away.

“They have sense,” Jack says, glancing sideways at Davey. “If you have any, you’ll be scared of him too.”

“But _why_?” Davey presses. Jack quickens his pace.

“He’s a short little fella,” Jack explains, and Davey breathes inward like he’s about to talk again, so he continues on, “But he has the entirety of Brooklyn underneath his thumb, and if you cross him, he’ll send fellas after you to get you, and you _pray_ he never gets you himself. He’s like three-foot tall and acts like he’s eight feet. It’s terrible, honestly.”

“How do you guys know him?” Davey asks next, and Jack sees how he shifts Les.

“You want me to take the kid?” Jack asks, and Davey hesitates before nodding. They pause, and Jack swings the kid onto his back, still asleep, and continues on, “Everyone knows Spot, Davey. Plus, Race used to be Brooklyn. Jesus, I should’a made him do this, Spot loves him.”

“Race was part of Brooklyn?” Davey asks and Jack rolls his eyes.

“ _Yeah_ ,” Jack says with a sigh. “He still sells there, near the racetrack, hence how he got his name.”

“Why did Race come to Manhattan, then? And Race _isn’t_ his real name?” Davey asks quietly and Jack’s not sure if he should dignify that with a real reply.

“You ask a lotta questions, Davey,” Jack points out. “You’re like a walkin’ mouth. We oughta call you that.”

“What, Walking Mouth?” Davey asks, sounding bewildered.

“Yeah, getting a nickname means you’re a real newsie,” Jack says, reaching an arm out to smack Davey’s side with it. He’s not sure if he should be doing this — calling Davey a ‘real newsie’ when he’s… not. “You can be Walking Mouth, just Mouth for short. I think that fits you.”

“Every newsie gets a nickname?” 

“No, _Racetrack_ ’s momma gave him that name,” Jack replies, pausing in his stride to properly look at Davey in exasperation. “Buttons has an item on his birth certificate. When Crutchie was born, they looked into his future and saw he’d have a bum leg, and bam!”

“Alright, alright,” Davey says, holding his hands up, but he’s grinning, and the sight of that makes Jack’s stomach flutter. He starts to walk again, because they only have a bit more to go.

“Every newsie gets a nickname to signify their past lives are left behind and that they’re with _us_ now,” Jack explains. He hopes he’s not coming off too strong. He’d hate to scare Davey away. “It _says_ something about them. Mike and Ike are inseparable. Finch spent his first week as a newsie using his papes as bird toilets. _You_ don’t shut up,” Jack adds, glancing over to see if Davey is still smiling. He is. “The only rule is that it has to be given by another newsie.” 

“What’s your nickname?” Davey asks, and Jack will let it slide, the fact that he’s asking yet _another_ question. Jack did bring it up, after all. “Everyone just calls you Jack Kelly.”

“Ah, well, I broke the given by another newsie rule because I gave it to myself, so I don’t _really_ have one,” Jack says, shrugging to shift Les on his back. “But it’s Cowboy.”

Without saying anything, Davey pauses for a second and takes back Les from Jack’s back and then asks, “Why?”

“You ever heard of Santa Fe?” Jack asks, knowing full well everyone else got sick of his dream and that Davey will, too. Still, it gives him a strange sense of comfort to talk about.

“Yeah, in school,” Davey replies. Jack forces himself to not cringe at Davey mentioning him going to school.

“I’m gonna go there one day,” Jack tells him, smiling down at the pavement as they walk down the road, almost at the Brooklyn Bridge. “I’m gonna hop a palomino and plant crops and make a different life for myself.”

“And be a cowboy,” Davey finishes. Jack nods, still looking down. “You’re really gonna leave?”

Jack’s taken aback, a little, at the disappointment in Davey’s voice. It’s not like they _know_ each other, not really. And Jack’s the one who has that whole… ‘falling in love’ thing, but there’s no reason why _Davey_ should be upset about someone he doesn’t really know moving away.

“Don’t be so glum,” Jack says anyway, looking back up and hitting Davey softly on the shoulder. “I’ve been wanting to go since I was ten and haven’t earned nearly enough yet. It’ll be a while.”

“Why’d you give yourself a nickname?” Davey asks, even though Jack’s pretty sure he said to stop the questions.

“To be honest?” Jack says, because he has this irrational feeling to open up to Davey, to maybe… _impress_ him. “I had a different one before Cowboy and I didn’t like it.”

Davey’s quiet for a moment, but then he says, “What was it?”

“Oh, no. Uh-uh,” Jack says with a laugh, looking over at Davey. “Crutchie is the only person still around who knows it, and like hell I am spilling that secret now.”

“Come on. You can tell me!” Davey insists. Jack looks over to Davey absolutely _beaming_ at him, and his heart skips a beat. “I promise I’d never tell anyone else.”

The thing is, Jack believes him. If it was any of the other guys, they would never shut up about it, but he believes that Davey will.

“I was young when I joined the newsies, okay?” Jack starts, smiling over at Davey. He just wants to preface this with the fact that he _isn’t_ that kid anymore. He’s grown, both literally and metaphorically. “And the older kids were around our age now, but even taller. And I was _young_. So, they called me Shortstop.”

“Shortstop,” Davey repeats. “That’s adorable.” Davey reaches out a hand and pats Jack’s head. Jack thinks that if any other newsie did that, he’d be insulted, but it feels _different_ with Davey.

“Hey, I am _nearly_ as tall as you,” Jack says, and if he stands up a little taller, then that’s his business.

“Not quite, though,” Davey teases. Jack pauses for a moment and he’s hit with how _easy_ it is to talk to Davey. Spending time with him makes the world seem a little bit brighter and clearer, like if he’s looking at the world through brand new glasses.

With a deep breath, Jack looks away from Davey for a second and looks ahead of them.

“Come on,” he says, pulling Les off of Davey’s back and onto the floor, effectively waking him up. “Brooklyn Lodging House,” he tells them, pointing.

Les rubs his eyes, looking ahead. He grabs Davey’s hand and, after a second, takes Jack’s as well. 

Jack doesn’t mention it. He just squeezes Les’s hand a little bit and together, they march forward.

“Jackie!” someone calls, swinging down off of a fire escape and landing in front of them. And there is Spot Conlon, in all of his five-foot-four glory.

“You’re Spot Conlon?” Davey asks, and Jack lets go of Les’ hand to smack him in the arm, hard.

“You’re bringin’ me new newsies, Jackie?” Spot asks, looking over Davey and Les.

“Don’t think about it, Spotty. They’re Manhattan through and through,” Jack says, shifting himself so he’s standing more in between the Jacobses and Spot. Spot grins. “I’m surprised ya haven’t heard about our strike already. Don’t’cha got ears all over?”

“Not all over,” Spot replies with a shrug. He’s quiet for a second before adding, “But Racer came and told me about your issue last night.”

Jack can’t help himself from snorting. “So?” he asks, extending the ‘o’. 

“So, I’m waitin’ to see what _you_ gotta say to me,” Spot says, poking Jack in the chest. “Race already gave me his argument, and I have an answer for that, but I wanna hear yours.”

“This is why we don’t like Spot,” Jack whispers to Davey, leaning in to him. “Or Race, either.”

“Look,” Davey says, approaching Spot, and Jack has to appreciate his gall. Or his stupidity. “Our strike isn’t just about us. This is about _all_ newsies. That includes you, even in Brooklyn.”

“And say we sends guys, huh?” Spot says, looking up at Davey, who’s towering above him. “What if you all give up when there’s sign of blood? I ain’t gonna send guys to somethin’ that ain’t serious.”

“We _are_ serious,” Davey says, glaring down at Spots. Jack thinks it’s cute that he’s trying to look intimidating. He just doesn’t really have the aura.

“Look, new kid, what’s ya name?” Spot asks, looking unimpressed at Davey’s insistence.

“David,” Davey replies. Spot grimaces and looks at Jack for Davey’s _new_ name — his newsie name.

“Walking Mouth,” Jack answers. Davey glances over at him, frowning, and Jack shrugs.

“Look, Mouth, I appreciate what yis doin’ here,” Spot says, starting to pace a little. “I know it ain’t no easy thing to strike. I’m not sure I would have the gall to do it myself.”

Jack knows that’s bull, and he wants Spot to get to the point already: is Brooklyn in or out?

“So you’ll join us?” Davey asks, the hope on his face marking him as someone who hasn’t been a newsie for long.

“Please,” Les asks, looking up at Spot with his best ‘I’m a poor orphan please buy my pape’ look. Spot looks down at him, and Jack knows he’s trying to restrain a laugh, because so is he.

After a few moments of them all just looking at each other in silence, Spot says, “No,” with a shrug. 

Jack sighs deeply and steps forward. “Whadda ya want, Spotty?” Jack asks, crossing his arms. 

“Prove to me that it’s serious, huh?” Spot says, poking Jack in the chest. “Prove that you ain’t gonna fold at the first sign of trouble.”

Jack wonders, absently, if they won’t fold.


	5. santa fe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay like this overlaps with the musical a lot and there it's basically just short scenes that fit in between scenes of the musical but have jack's thoughts and stuff so yeah bear with me  
> also rest in pieces to something to believe in  
> a note about the book jack shows davey: it's in the movie, but the series was published in 1908/09 so?? and the book shown in the movie is "western jim or the mystery of demon hollow" which doesn't seem to exist - it's "*gunpower* jim and the mystery of demon hollow" so....... suspension of disbelief here please. and if that IS the book they meant, there's a digital copy here: https://digital.library.villanova.edu/Item/vudl:550171#?c=&m=&s=&cv=&xywh=-1921%2C0%2C6060%2C2992 except i skimmed through some of it (i got bored quickly, sue me) and i don't think they mention santa fe????? so who KNOWS where jack got the idea from, because he sure doesn't say it in the musical and the movie is wrong sooooooooooooooo just pretend, for me. thanks!

The fire escape seems empty without Crutchie there. The night seems colder than usual.

Jack wonders who else got arrested.

He’s not sure he wants to know.

… 

_Your brother,_

_Crutchie_

Jack squeezes the edge of the letter hard as he rereads it. Crinkle lines appear, and it’s only then that Jack loosens his grip and folds it up, slipping it into his pocket.

Jack feels like his mouth is full of blood. 

He’s standing at the bottom of the fire escape of the Refuge, and he’s really too close for comfort, but he can’t believe that Crutchie _couldn’t even make it to the window_. It makes Jack feel sick, the want of seeing Crutchie.

God, if Crutchie doesn’t make it… he doesn’t think he would want to know if that happens.

But still, what else is new? 

He wonders if he could just… leave. He thinks, painfully, for the first time in years, of freaking Bread and Cheese. They left. Why shouldn’t he?

Why shouldn’t he just leave before someone _else_ leaves him?

As if his legs have a mind of their own, Jack turns, and he starts to walk.

…

Davey simultaneously makes Jack’s life easier and harder, he thinks, standing in front of the office building of the _World_. It’s so easy for Jack to get along with Davey, to agree with whatever he says, and he hates it, but he sort of loves it.

He has to admit, though, this whole rally thing seems like a pretty good idea.

Davey is a genius, Jack thinks, as he lifts his hand to knock on the door.

He’ll think that about Davey until the end of time.

…

“...From now on, they will treat us as equals,” Davey is saying, and Jack thinks he might regret every single one of his life choices.

But still, he thinks of Pulitzer saying _ripped from their loving family and tossed to the rats_ , and Jack can bear going to the Refuge, but he’s not going to subject Davey and Les to that. Not if he can help it.

And he can, he realizes.

He steps forward.

…

“Don’t let that stop ya,” Jack says, holding Katherine’s hand under his chin, absolutely seething. “Gimme your best shot.”

And then Katherine grabs the sides of his face and presses his lips to hers. Jack pulls back after a few seconds, Jack pulls away, gasping for air.

Katherine looks a little defeated.

“You love him, don’t you,” she says, but it’s not a question. Jack knows it isn’t, and he knows she knows the answer. “Is that why you caved? To protect him?”

Jack’s tongue feels all tingly. He gives a little half-shrug.

“I spoke the truth,” Jack says, instead of fully answering her question. “You _heard_ your father. No matter how many days we strike, he ain’t never givin’ up. I don’t know what else we _can_ do,” he tells Katherine, desperate.

With a grin, Katherin brings a folded up piece of paper out of her pocket and says, “Oh, but _I_ do.”

… 

Davey’s sitting on the curb, in front of Medda’s theatre, and the sight of him makes Jack’s heart leap in his throat.

“I’m sorry,” Jack says, walking over and sitting next to him. Usually, he wouldn’t even _think_ about sitting on the ground — he’s only got one pair of pants, and getting them dirty isn’t very pleasant to deal with.

Davey looks over at him for just a moment, and there’s an anger in his eyes that Jack’s a little bit taken aback at. He didn’t think Davey could _get_ angry. Still, Davey doesn’t move, so Jack supposes that’s good news.

“I’m not gonna keep the money,” Jack whispers, because he doesn’t even know where to start. “I’ll give it back to Pulitzer, right away.”

“I don’t care about the money, Jack,” Davey says, still looking at the floor instead of Jack. “I care about the fact that you stabbed us in the back.”

Jack breathes in hard, because he knows that Davey’s right. And it sounds too similar to what he’s said to Katherine.

“ _Why_?” Davey asks, after a moment.

And boy, isn’t that a loaded question.

“Pulitzer said it was either talk against the union or hand us over to Snyder,” Jack starts to explain.

“We could’ve stood up to them, Jack,” Davey says, still pointedly looking at the ground. “We did it before, and this time we had five times the people. We had _Brooklyn_. And I’m assuming talking against the union gave you money for a ticket west, huh?”

“They threatened you,” Jack blurts out quietly, looking at the side of Davey’s face, hoping for _some_ sort of reaction. “You and Les. I couldn’t just…”

“We would’ve been fine,” Davey insists, and Jack sighs and gets up.

“You wanna go for a walk?” Jack asks. Davey looks up at him properly for the first time all night, searching Jack’s face. Jack offers out his hand. It takes a few moments, but eventually, Davey takes it, letting Jack help him stand up.

“If you’re turning me into Pulitzer for more Santa Fe money…” Davey threatens. Jack lets go of his hand quickly and starts to walk.

They walk in silence for ten minutes, Jack’s feet leading him home. He starts to climb the fire escape, climbing it all the way up, with only a single glance behind him to make sure Davey’s following him.

Once they’re on top, Jack goes over to his things, shuffling things around.

“Is this where you live?” Davey asks quietly, and Jack wants to get mad at the amazement in his voice, but he can’t make himself.

“Welcome to my penthouse,” he mutters, giving the floor a sad smile. His fingers stop on a piece of paper with the likeness of Crutchie staring up back at him, and he quickly moves that away in favor of the canvas underneath that. “Here,” he says, handing it to Davey.

Davey frowns and looks at it, looks at one of Jack’s worst memories living on paper.

“Is this the refuge?” Davey asks, his fingers tracing the boys on the bed.

“I just couldn’t make you go through that,” Jack says, sitting down hard. “I couldn’t.”

“Can I see your other drawings?” Davey asks, and Jack shrugs, making a vague gesture towards the rest of his artwork. He remembers, his breath hitching, that he’s drawn Davey somewhere in that pile, but he’s drawn all the other guys, too, so…

“This Santa Fe?” Davey asks. Jack shrugs, without looking over at Davey.

“Probably,” he replies. It’s not like he draws any other landscapes other than Santa Fe.

“I like this drawing,” Davey says, walking over and sitting so close to Jack that he can feel the body heat coming off of him. He shows it to Jack, and Davey is staring back up at him on the paper. Jack’s glad for the night to mask the way his face must be glowing right now.

“You can keep it,” Jack offers, playing it off with a shrug. They’re silent, for a moment, and Jack thinks that there’s nothing else left to say.

Until Davey opens his mouth again.

“I don’t get it. What’s with you and Santa Fe?” Davey asks, and Jack’s breath catches in his throat. Because for all of the years he’s spent griping about going to Santa Fe, no one’s ever really asked him _why_.

“That’s quite a personal question, Dave,” Jack points out, jerking his head and looking at the night sky. It’s his turn to avoid making eye contact.

“You don’t have to answer it,” Davey says quickly, and doesn’t that just make Jack’s heart flip around.

“Nah, I will,” Jack says, biting his cheek. “New York ate my family up. I hate it here. In the west, there are clear skies, and air, and a _new start_.”

“I don’t think those stories about clean air in the west are true, with the mining over there. Plus, I don’t think New York ate your entire family up,” Davey points out, tapping Jack on the shoulder. “We’re still here, yeah?”

Jack looks over at Davey, and he thinks about Crutchie saying he falls in love at first sight. He thinks that’s not quite true, because _this_ , _now_ , this is when Jack is falling in love. His heart twists, and he wants to goddamn _kiss_ Davey, right now.

He doesn’t.

“Why Sante Fe in particular?” Davey presses. Jack knows that if he asks, the topic will be dropped. Jack doesn’t ask. “There are dozens of cities out west. Why Santa Fe?”

Jack lets out a little grumble and lifts himself up. He can hear Davey let out a little noise from behind him, but he ignores him and goes to shuffle through his small pile of stuff. After moving a few canvases, he finds what he’s looking for and walks back to Davey.

“Look at this,” he says, showing Davey what’s in his hands. _Beadle’s Frontier Series. Western Jim._ Davey takes it, gingerly, and Jack watches his gentle fingers run over the cover. “My father bought me that, y’know. He taught me how to survive, out on the streets. Taught me everything I know. And then he bought me that book one time when money was good, and then he died a few days later. Left me.”

“Jack —” Davey starts, still looking down hard at the book. 

“Ah, save your pity. I found a new family, in the newsies. I learned that being young just meant I would actually be able to make a livable amount of money. And I read that book and tried to forget I didn't have a real father anymore," he says with a nod. "But sometimes," Jack says, tapping the cover of the book with a finger, his hand nearly touching Davey's. “Sometimes it was easier to pretend my father was just waiting out for me in Santa Fe, with Western Jim and his buddies. It was a nice dream to be set on, that one day I would be with them.”

Jack looks out at the night and thinks about Bread and Cheese and how he had held onto the dream of meeting them in Santa Fe for years. He’s not sure if he’s ready to tell Davey about that, not yet. Maybe someday, though. 

Santa Fe’s been holding his dreams for him for most of his life. He’s not sure he’s ready to let them go. 

Jack thinks about how he's seen all of the newsies change over the years. He remembers all of his current friends, coming in bright-eyed, and he remembers that twinkle being stamped out quickly. 

And he's only seventeen, but he feels so, so very old. 

“I'm sorry,” Davey says, because he's stinking _Davey_ , with a mother and a father, and no way to really relate to what Jack's gone through. 

“Eh, it all worked out in the end,” Jack says with a shrug, trying to be calm. “We met, didn't we?” he points out, knocking their shoulders together. 

Davey looks at him, brown eyes bright and a lopsided smile on his face that makes Jack's stomach clench up. 

“How old were you?” Davey asks, gesturing with the _Western Jim_ book. “When you started with the papes?”

“Five,” Jack says, looking down at his lap. 

Davey is different, he thinks, because no other newsie would ask these things. They get friendly without getting personal, for the most part. It makes things easier. Sure, he’s close with most of the newsies, and there are some things about their personal lives that everyone knows, but doesn’t mention. Everyone knows that Race fakes an accent over his real Italian one. Everyone knows that Albert still has a mother — he still sees her, on occasion. But, when it comes down to it, Jack doesn’t even know most of their given names. Joining the newsies means leaving your old life behind — it’s a new start, and none of their pasts matter anymore. 

Except Jack knows that Davey fully expects to jump back into the old life he and Les had had when their father gets all better. Davey still has his past, because Davey’s past is going to be his future. This whole thing… This is just a stint, just a blip in Davey’s life. 

This _is_ Jack’s life.

He’s not ridiculous. He knows that Santa Fe will probably never happen. He’ll be able to deal.

“Twelve years,” Davey says, and Jack makes a little jerk with his head that’s supposed to be a nod.

“This is my life,” he says, this time out loud. “I just wanted to make it a little better, but this whole thing seemed so _unfair_ , I just…” Jack holds out a hand to the night sky and he’s trying to explain why he hurt Davey, even though he doesn’t think Davey even wants an explanation anymore. “I spoke the truth. I didn’t think Pulitzer could ever be beaten.”

“ _Didn’t_?” Davey repeats.

Jack, for what feels like the first time in days, smiles. Slowly, he reaches into his pocket and, with two fingers, pulls out the piece of paper Katherine gave him. Davey takes it and Jack can hear the sound of paper unfolding.

“ _The Children’s Crusade_?” Davey reads, and Jack thinks the night isn’t so dark anymore.

…

Davey agrees to help him print and distribute the papers, but it’s _Jack_ that has to talk to Spot.

He finds Spot at the bottom of Race’s fire escape, and they’re talking to each other, looking happier than Jack had expected them to. It gives Jack a strange sense of longing, and he thinks of _freaking_ Bread and Cheese. 

He’s thinking of them a lot lately.

“Spot,” Jack calls, and Jack has _never_ seen someone drop a smile so quickly.

“Tony, do ya hear someone talkin’?” Spot says to Race. _Tony?_ Jack thinks he might have to talk to both Race _and_ Spot, if they’re on a real name basis, apparently. 

“Spot,” Race says, his tone stiff. All the same, he nods at Jack, and Jack appreciates that. “Whadda you gotta say?” Race asks Jack. 

There’s a coldness in Race’s voice that Jack doesn’t think he’s ever heard before. 

“I’m _sorry_ ,” Jack says, and he knows that Davey forgave him, but neither Race nor Spot are really the mushy types. He can’t really tell them how he was feeling like he did with Davey.

Race looks down at the ground, biting his lip. Spot’s looking anywhere but at Jack.

Jack sighs, and thinks that they’re both _action_ people. He slides the piece of paper out of his pocket again and walks over to Spot. Before Spot reacts, Jack grabs his hand, puts the paper in it, and then backs away.

“You two wanna break into Pulitzer’s office and _end_ this thing?” he demands.

Spot frowns, but he unfolds the paper and starts to read.

…

“New York’s got us,” Crutchie says. “And we’re family.” 

And Jack looks at Crutchie, and at Katherine, and at all the other Newsies.

And he looks at _Davey_.

God.

He can’t make himself leave any of them.

And he especially can’t make himself leave Davey.

“Well, Jack,” Davey says, fixing him with a firm look that still somehow makes Jack’s stomach flip-flop. “Are you in or you out?”

Jack smiles, and there’s a warmth spreading throughout him as he takes in Davey. He grabs a quarter from his pocket.


	6. seize the day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and the last one. i wrote this entire thing in 4 days because i have a newsies problem. i hoped you liked it and i liked reading it and i sorta wanna revisit this and just have this mc be like.. my newsie hc dump world.. i wanna revisit bread and butter i think and also write about sprace so ... yeah :)  
> this takes place over a few months. sorta like chapter two, it goes chronologically but i dont really mention the time so much  
> anyhow, do you ever think about how davey is only a newsie until he goes back to school? so does jack!  
> i got the idea that "sitting on the fire escape" is newsie code for hooking up from some fic but i cannot remember what it is from so if you know please tell me lmao

After it all, things don’t really seem so different. Jack’s still woken up at too-early-in-the-goddamn-morning o’clock by Crutchie. He still buys his hundred papes and hits the road with everyone else.

He still sells his papes with Davey and Les.

That part’s still new.

It’s an unspoken agreement, though, and Jack likes the company. Still, spring turns to summer, and as summer dwindles down, Jack’s hit with the realization that Davey and Les are…

Well, they’re not _newsies_. They’re part of their crew, yes, but it’s glaringly obvious that being a newsie isn’t their entire life the way it is for the rest of them. They still come with neat haircuts and pressed shirts. They’re only hawking papers until their father gets work again, they had said, forever and a half ago.

With the summer ending and the new school year starting…

It’s clear to Jack that the other boys have realized it too. It’s clear when Race lets Les win at poker easier than normal. It’s clear when Spot comes to visit and he claps Davey on the back a little harder than normal, just to leave a mark there for later. It’s clear when the other boys watch Davey get his usual twenty papes in the morning with a little sadness, as if they’re remembering when Davey first joined and his mishap with the twenty papes and if they’re thinking about the last time Davey will buy papers. Jack knows he does it.

Jack doesn’t know if Davey and Les notice him slowly changing their paper route, but they start passing the school daily. The board out front advertises the days until the school year starts, and that’s Jack’s countdown to Davey leaving him.

There are five days left, and Davey seems just as down as Jack is.

There are four days left, and Les doesn’t come to work with Davey.

There are three days left, and Davey hugs Jack, hard, at the end of the day, and it’s not unwelcome, but it comes out of nowhere. Jack breathes in Davey and tries to not forget the scent.

There are two days left, and Jack stays awake the entire night, drawing Davey over and over again because he already feels like a distant dream.

There’s one day left, and Jack thinks he might lose the ability to sell papes without Davey.

And then the next morning, Jack wakes up and realizes that Davey isn’t going to be there when he gets to the distribution center.

“Geddup, Jack,” Crutchie says, banging down his crutch near Jack’s head. Jack opens one eye to see Crutchie hovering above him. Jack closes his eyes again. “Morning bell’s already rung.”

“Okay,” Jack says, keeping his eyes shut tight. Crutchie doesn’t speak, but Jack can hear him breathe in deeply.

“Are ya gonna come?” Crutchie asks. Jack doesn’t reply. He knows he’s being childish, but he’ll get over it tomorrow and he’ll be back as good as new. He just needs one day to mope.

When Jack cracks open his eyes again, it’s to Crutchie going down the fire escape, all by himself.

Jack closes his eyes once more.

…

Jack spends most of the day drawing comics for Pulitzer, because those have deadlines. It feels good, to be productive, and it gets his mind off of… 

Off of things.

The sun is starting to dip when Jack decides to clear up his stuff. He pauses as he’s bending over his art materials, because there’s someone coming up to his fire escape. He can tell it’s not Crutchie.

In fact, the walk sounds like —

Well, school must be over for the day, he figures.

Because he knows it’s Davey who’s climbing up to him; he knows the way Davey moves, the way he walks, the way he climbs, the way he… everything.

He _hates_ it.

“Jack,” Davey says, from behind him. Jack doesn’t turn around to look at him.

“Dave!” he exclaims, trying to sound cheery enough. He still doesn’t turn around to look at Davey, instead sitting down with his legs hanging off of the side.

“You okay?” Davey asks, sitting down next to Jack. Jack looks over to the side. “Crutchie said you didn’t wanna come in this morning.”

“Thought you was going back to school, after all of this,” Jack mutters, frowning as he tries to think about why Davey was selling papes today. Did Jack miscount how many days left there were until school started? Did Davey just… not go to school?

God, why does Davey _freaking_ Jacobs enjoy making his life so _goddamn_ difficult? 

“Yeah, well,” Davey says and Jack can feel him swallow hard and he wonders if Davey, if _his Davey_ is about to cry. “I said that my father messed his leg up bad, but he…”

“Messed up something else, too?” Jack finishes, an awful feeling festering in his stomach.

“We didn’t want Les to know, but,” Davey says, his voice sounding thick.

“He knows now, huh?” Jack guesses, and he wonders when he started being able to read Davey so clearly.

Jack’s not sure what to say. He doesn’t really remember what people said to _him_ , when his father died, but there’s a tickling feeling at the back of his neck that tells Jack that _nothing_ he says is going to be genuine enough.

He turns to Davey, and Davey looks so downright _miserable_ , with his lower lip slightly trembling and tears in his eyes, and Jack freezes for just a second. And then he wraps his arms around Davey’s shoulder and hugs Davey tight and turns out he doesn’t say much, after all.

…

Jack does go to work the next day, after Crutchie poking him quite relentlessly with his crutch.

And Davey is right there, holding papes in his hand. Jack buys his usual hundred, and when they all hit the road, he goes with Davey. It feels like the most natural thing in the world.

“So, you stayin’ here?” Jack asks, after a nearly silent morning, hitting Davey with the rest of his papes.

“I don’t know,” Davey says with a sigh. Jack freezes. “I was thinking about moving to Santa Fe.”

It takes Jack a second to look at Davey and to see the grin on his lips and the crinkles by his eyes and to realize that he’s joking. 

“That’s a rotten joke, Daves,” he mutters, but he can’t help but smile.

“Now you know how the rest of us felt,” Davey points out, which warrants another smack with his papers.

Jack pauses for a second, and he really wants to kiss Davey.

He doesn’t.

…

There’s a new kid at the distribution window. Jack asks Race to show him the ropes.

Jack sells with Davey.

…

Jack draws his cartoons while Davey sits next to him and reads _Western Jim_. It’s peaceful. It’s almost domestic.

Jack’s heart aches.

…

“Are you ever gonna tell him, Jackie?” Crutchie asks, as Jack takes off his overshirt and places it aside.

Jack doesn’t have to ask for clarification.

He shrugs

…

“Albert asked me to sit out on a fire escape with him yesterday,” Davey says, conversationally as always.

Except it makes Jack’s hand pause where it is on his piece of paper, his portrait of Davey halfway done. Every newsie knows that _sitting on the fire escape_ means something completely different than just _sitting on the fire escape_.

Jack wonders if Davey knows about that, yet.

“Oh, yeah?” Jack says, forcing himself to continue his drawing. “And did ya?”

“Nah,” Davey says with a shrug. Jack tries not to show him getting tripped up over this. “I told him that you’re really the only one I sit on the fire escape with.”

Jack has no idea how to reply to that.

Okay, so maybe Davey _doesn’t_ know what it means? He’s only been a newsie for a few months; it’s possible he doesn’t know its connotations. 

“I should get going,” Davey says next, and then he’s going down the fire escape, and he’s gone before Jack can ask him _what the hell he meant_.

…

“How’d ya do it?” Jack asks Race, a little bit desperately, as they both sit on the curb and Race smokes a cigar.

“Ya gotta be a little bit more specific, Jackie,” Race says, blowing smoke into the air. Jack takes a deep sigh, and he swallows his pride, because he’s so goddamn _sick_ of his heart aching every time he looks at Davey. He looks at Davey quite a lot. His chest hurts.

“You and Spot,” Jack says, because he knows that they have something going on, something that’s close to what Jack wants.

“Oho,” Race says, elbowing Jack hard in the arm. “You wanna get dating advice for your lil’ _Mouth_!” 

“No,” Jack says immediately. Even in the dark, Jack can see Race throw a shit-eating grin his way. “Maybe,” he amends. “Can ya just _help_ me?”

Race moves a little bit closer to Jack.

“Alright,” Race says, knocking their knees together. “As the one who’s actually got a fella, lemme help you.”

“Please,” Jack says, though he’s still hesitant, because it’s _Race_. He trusts him around eighty percent of the time.

“If you was Mouth, and I was you, you just gotta sit right like this,” Race says, pressing right up again Jack in a way that makes Jack want to shift to the side. “And then, ya just do this,” he says, bringing up his hand to cup Jack’s cheek. “And say, ‘Mouth, I really like ya.’ And then ya kiss ‘im,” Race finishes, smacking Jack’s cupped cheek lightly. “I ain’t gonna kiss ya, but I think ya get the picture.”

“I’m swoonin’,” Jack deadpans. He’s not sure how effective that’ll be on Davey. 

“You asked,” Race points out, shifting away and sticking his cigar back in mouth, signifying the time for talking being over. 

Jack thinks about it, sitting there in silence with Race, thinking about Race’s little demonstration. He’d never admit it, not to anyone, and _especially_ not to Race, but maybe he’s right. 

Maybe he should just tell Davey how he feels.

…

Jack has several opportunities to open up to Davey. They spend a lot of time alone together, Jack’s starting to realize.

He’s almost convinced himself that he shouldn’t do it at all when they hold another rally for the newsboy union. Jack’s supposed to be their fearless leader, and he gets out of his own head long enough to give the speech Davey had helped him write about how important their union is. 

And the rest of the night, he stares at Spot and Race quite a lot.

The two of them aren’t even that openly affectionate to each other. Jack gets it — there are too many other newsies around, and neither of them are dumb. But still, it’s clear that the two of them are close.

Jack and Davey have been on opposite sides of the room practically all night.

It makes Jack’s heart ache and he wants that, really badly.

…

“Dave, can we talk?” Jack asks, walking past Race winning a hand against Davey underneath an awning. Race looks up, cigar in his mouth and mirth in his eyes. “Alone?”

Davey looks from Race to Jack and then back again. Race nods and grins and Davey shrugs and gets up.

The two of them start to walk, and Jack’s leading, but he doesn’t really have a destination. After a few minutes, Jack pauses, and so does Davey.

“Can ya hear that?” Jack asks, frowning and sitting down on the curb. There’s this huge thrumming sound that he can hear around them and his hands are sweaty.

“No,” Davey says, sitting down next to Jack. “Are you okay? You don’t look too good.”

Jack breathes out hard, and it takes him another moment for him to realize that he’s hearing his own heartbeat.

“I’m fine,” Jack chokes out. He takes off his cap and runs a hand through his hair. He just needs to _do_ it.

God, he’s either going to punch or hug race.

He inches closer, pressing his body up against Davey. To his utter delight, Davey doesn’t move.

“Davey,” he says, and he brings up a hand to cup Davey’s cheek. Davey’s frowning, furrowing his brow and his brown eyes are looking into Jack’s, deep with concern. “I really like ya,” he says, finally.

Davey’s silent.

Jack’s not sure what to do now. Race had said to _kiss_ Davey, but he’s not sure he should do that. Davey’s still frowning, and Jack’s hand is still on his cheek, and Jack’s heavily leaning towards punching Race.

And then, Davey’s frown morphs into a smile, and he starts to laugh.

Jack still doesn’t know what to do. He’s not sure laughing is much better than frowning, or just straight-up rejecting him.

“Did you get advice from Race?” Davey asks, finally, still in between laughs.

Jack drops his hand from Davey’s face and he averts his eyes as he shuffles away a little. He’s definitely going to punch Race.

“You’re right, it was stupid,” Jack mutters, scuffing the floor with the toe of his shoe. “I should’a never taken Race’s advice.”

“No, it was _fine_ ,” Davey says, quickly, moving closer to Jack. Jack moves away as Davey moves closer, because he doesn’t really want the pity. “Look, I asked Race for advice too,” Davey admits, trying to shift closer. Jack doesn’t move this time.

“Good for you,” he mutters, still not looking at Davey. He doesn’t really want to hear about Davey getting advice from Race for some dame or whoever. It’s not really going to make him feel much better.

He’s actually going to punch Race.

“Jackie,” Davey says, softly. Then, before Jack can realize what’s happening, Davey brings his hand up and cups the side of Jack’s face, slowly turning Jack’s head to look at him. “I really like you.”

“Oh,” Jack says, staring at Davey with his mouth slightly open.

“Yeah,” Davey says, sounding a little bit breathless. “Can I do the next part of Race’s advice?” Davey asks, his hand still on Jack’s cheek.

“Ya better,” Jack says.

And so Davey does, leaving in slowly and pressing his lips to Jack’s.

It sends a shock through Jack, and he brings his hand up to cup Davey’s cheek as well. A thrill goes through him, and he thinks he’s short-circuiting.

Admittedly, Jack’s had a lot of kisses over the years. A lot of them were really good, and sent just as much of a thrill through him.

This one, though…

This one feels permanent.


End file.
